


Five Times I Tried To Write Spooky Nonsense (October Pormpt Bingo)

by FishFlesh



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: 2018 October Writing Prompt Bingo, Not great but not terrible writing, vauge shipping if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-03 05:52:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16320323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FishFlesh/pseuds/FishFlesh
Summary: Five spooky, October themed prompts chosen from harutemus prompt bingo on tumblr!Each (very) short story is stand alone. Check the notes for story specific tags/warnings if they apply. Warning that I am garbage at appropriate tags but I will try.





	1. Tradition

**Author's Note:**

> Characters: Orion Pax  
> Pairings: N/A  
> Warnings: Dread--Personality Death?

Orion Pax stood in silence at the bottom of the scalloped stone steps, looking up with both awe and dread. He had been waiting for quite some time, standing there and peering up at the tall, narrow double doors. Waiting. Waiting. He had the distinct impression that he should not step forward, should not climb the ancient steps and move beyond the threshold. He had no choice. Orion Pax began climbing the steps.

He had been Chosen.

The Temple sat as it always had; silent and eerily still. It was as if there was no hum of life in that place, the delicate spires reaching up into the uncaring sky, surrounded by the wilds of Cybertron that dare not grow too close. The fading light and long shadows made the building seem so much more complex, fooling one into believing it was larger, longer, full of nooks and crannies to get lost in. As Orion mounted the final step and walked toward the closed doors, the looming structure seemed ready to devour him like some trap. He pushed one of the doors, the shining white metal yielding with ease to invite him inside.

The Temple of Primus, contrary to the illusions of the dying day, was smaller than expected. The inside of the Temple was a single, if large, circular room. It was as the priests had said when they had prepared him for the ritual, if it could be called that. Tall, narrow windows, like the door, made of colored glass and beautiful reliefs embossed into the sparkling metal of the walls. Both immortalizing ancient heroes and past Primes. There were no seats, only a pool of rippling mercury in a great basin under the central alter and a long, narrow walkway across. 

The beauty did nothing to ease the creeping wariness that had seized him when he had approached the Temple. The feeling was more intense inside, as Orion walked slowly across the narrow path, the sensation of being watched from all sides weighing heavy and only becoming more oppressive as he made his way through the dimly lit space. His steps faltered, pausing as he looked over his shoulder, so sure someone was standing there.

But the Temple was empty. Orion Pax was the only one there.

It was the Way. No one else was permitted to be here.

Continuing forward, the oppressive sensation of being watched, of impending doom, pressed down on him as if in warning. He wanted to leave, wanted to turn and flee back out the doors and toward Iacon in the distance. But it was too late for that, the Temple door had closed behind him and Orion knew, somehow, that they would not open for him ever again.

On the alter, a smooth, solid cylinder of solid copper, sat a small chest made of some denser metal. Orion noted, with silent despair, that whenever he looked open it his sense of dread became nearly unbearable. He knew what it was, of course, the priests had told him.

He was Chosen. It was the Way. It was **Tradition.**

Taking a rattled vent, Orion came to stand beside the alter, staring down at what was, to him, the end of all things. He would not be leaving the Temple alive. It was his duty; he had been Chosen! To shirk what was ask of him was to bring ruin upon them all.

With shaking fingers he reached forward, gently lifting the heavy lid of the chest and fighting the intense urge to scream as a new, more terrifying sensation spilled forth. The servos in his wrists seized and he could hear a terrible, shrill wail that he realized was his own.

It came as a blinding white light. Cold like the most bitter frost and alive. Alive and whispering to him; it was chanting.

Unable to stop himself, Orion Pax found himself reaching into the cold light. His fingers touched solid metal, horribly cold, but he could not pull away. He screamed as his fingers closed around what felt like handles, before the cold ate away the sensation into nothing but icy agony. The light cast his shadow, tall and stark, across the wall and high up into the uncaring ceiling. The figures in the windows and reliefs looked on with the dispassionate, empty expressions. The images had witnessed this so many times before.

The light swelled, laughing without warmth.

And Orion Pax was no more.


	2. Zombie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Bluestreak, Prowl, Sunstreaker, sideswipe, mentions of others  
> Pairings: N/A  
> Warnings: Mentions of death, mentions of cannibalism

"What are we going to do?" Bluestreak's voice was a near whine from where he sat huddled against the still form of Sideswipe. The red mech had fallen into recharge and the sniper had sought the comfort of physical contact. He was looking past Prowl, currently bent over a flickering datapad in focused silence, at the barricaded door on the far side of the room. "What if they break through? What if we can't get out? What if Sunny gets infected out there an--"

"Bluestreak." Prowl's voice was steely, lacking any inflection as he cut the other Praxian off. "I will get us out of here." He hadn't looked up from the datapad, peering down at a map of the complex and hoping to have found a secure way out before the power in the thing finally died out. The screen flickered again and he simple stared onward, almost unbothered. Almost.

Bluestreak didn't blame him--losing Jazz had hurt.

They lapsed into silence, the soft hum of their systems and the faint whirling of their collective ventilation the only sound. Bluestreak hated it, but he knew too much noise would doom them all. So he waited, watching the door, and Prowl, while he huddled there. With the near silence he could hear them, the faint metallic scrapes and dinging from far down the corridor outside. Perhaps the nearest one, a slow gate with a heave limp, was what was left of Ratchet? They had passed him as they ran and Ratchet, still coherent, had told them which turn not to take.

From the center of the room Prowl shifted, his sensor panels rotating to follow some faint vibration. 

Both Praxians tensed.

Then the access panel on the wall opened and Sunstreaker, golden paint scraped and caked in dust and tried energon, wiggled in from the maintenance tunnel. He was irate but quiet, quickly scrambling into the room and shutting the panel behind him. He barely fit and, if their situation wasn't so dismal, would have been comical.

"Well?" Prowl's clipped words still lacked the emotion needed to sound demanding.

Sunstreaker simply glowered, glaring at nothing before finally looking at the remaining Autobots as if contemplating. They were slagged, he knew, but Prowl was a miracle worker. "Well none of them bit me, if that's what you're asking." He began, voice a low growl as he looked over the sorry state of his frame. Scuffed and filthy, tacky with dried energon. "Those damn things can talk. Creepy fraggers. Jazz--" He glanced at Prowl who only stared with inscrutable aloofness. "Was calling for me. Think he started following but I lost him. Guess Prime didn't eat enough of him."

Bluestreak winced. Sunstreaker wasn't one for tact but even that was a bit callous. Jazz had stayed behind to distract Optimus while the rest of them escaped and now...

"Then we leave. If there's no one else then what's the point in staying around here?" Sideswipe, who apparently had woken up but hadn't so much as budged, murmured from beside the sniper. He was tired still, exhausted really, but at least they weren't fighting their way through the infested base anymore. The twins had been unarmed, as had Bluestreak, and Prowl's rifle had run out of ammunition before they made it into this safe room. They were so slagged.

The datapad in the middle of the floor flickered as Prowl lifted it, giving the route displayed on last look before shutting it off and letting the struggling device rest. "I agree. We can go through the access corridors until we reach the practice yard and make a run for it. There should be weapons there, even if they were designed for sparring, they will be better than nothing. We need to make it over the wall and out of the city. I cannot say how easy that will be until I see the situation outside of the base." No doubt those in the surrounding city were also infected, but there was still a chance to be rid of this if they could get past the city limits and into the more sparsely populated areas beyond.

He owed it to Jazz to get the others to safety.

"You mean we have to sneak out without any of our friends trying to eat us? Sunny said they could talk, can you imagine what that would be like? What if everyone outside of the base can talk? I don't know if I can handle that, all those shaming, ravenous things callin--...." Bluestreak paused in the middle of his rant and turned to look at the wall nearest Sunstreaker. The others had stopped as well, all four of them staring.

"Did you hear--"

"Yeah."

"Is it in the hall?"

"Quiet!"

"That doesn't sound lik--"

"Oh no." Bluestreak whimpered, his door wings quivering as the rest of his plating rattled. They all heard it, the faint crooning of voices, calling for them each by name. He could make out Jazz and what sounded like Ironhide. Maybe Bumblebee? But who the voices were was little in comparison to the spark-deep terror he felt as an ominous realization came over him. "Ratchet." They had ran past him, he had been bleeding, bitten, infected, but he told them to leave him. Ratchet had told them not to turn left. They had all thought the virus hadn't taken him yet.

The access panel Sunstreaker had come through rattled softly and began to open.


	3. Lantern

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Ratchet, Drift|Deadlock  
> Pairings: Ratchet/Drift|Deadlock sorta.  
> Warnings: Death, undeath, biting????
> 
> I said I was garbage at tags.

_The lantern sat on the desk. The steady light a beacon in the looming darkness and the only thing keeping Ratchet sane. The thing was running low on fuel, however, and he sat there staring at the glowing halo of safety while he waited. It would go out soon, the light was steady but low to conserve fuel. Outside the darkness waited, hungry, and sharp, clever things lurked. He knew his demon, his failure. He--it--would come for him before dawn and all Ratchet could do was stare at the soft light and bask in its safety a little while longer._

\-----

The town of Rodion had been struck with some strange plague. Many in the slums of the Dead End and the surrounding neighborhoods seemed to suffer from the strange ailment the most though there were reports of similar afflictions across the town proper. Victims of the disease began showing symptoms in the form of weakness upon coming out of recharge which progressed to prolonged fatigue and a sickly dulling of color. There were signs of an inexplicable lack of energon in their lines until eventual deactivation left them cold and grey.

The Dead End was littered with dull, dead frames and those still living who were unaffected had gone into hiding. The oppressive sense of quiet death lingered over all and Ratchet, tending to the sick in his charity clinic, began to wonder how long it would take for mass hysteria to grip the populace. Memories of another, smaller town that had fallen under a similar sickness ended with the towns mechs simply murdering anyone they suspected of being ill for fear of contagion. 

The town didn't survive.

Those thoughts were a distraction here and the medic quickly pushed them aside while he scurried from one medical berth to the next. All of them, his patients, were weakand groggy. Some where regaining their strength however. Ratchet knew better; as soon as they were released from care they would return within days, weak and near dead. And that was if they returned at all before being discovered dead in the gutter.

"How you holding up, kid?" Ratchet focused on one of the dying, a mess of pale and darker grey with gold accents. He was sure that pale grey would have gleamed white with a good scrub but a thorough washing was less important that keeping the poor mech awake. This one had come in that morning, just after dawn, and was teetering on the edge of deactivation. 

Ratchet had gotten a name out of him then, Drift, but now the desiccated speedster wasn't speaking at all or making any sound other than the feeble whoosh of his ventilation. With no answer forthcoming he could only frown, feeling the quiet despair of another life he was unable to save. Knowing the poor mech was doomed didn't stop Ratchet from tending to him, checking his system readings and adjusting the supplementary energon drip that was too little too late for the poor empty.

The nature of this plague was maddening.

Giving the dying mech, Drift, a pat on the upper arm he watched him fade into stasis, knowing deactivation of all vital systems would follow. He supposed this was a better than dying out in some back alley or bolthole all alone. Drift turned his helm, flickering amber optics brightening for a moment as they focused on the medic standing over him before the light dimmed to nothing.

Gone.

Ratchet groaned, scrubbing his face with his hands, before turning off the monitor equipment and marking the time of death to add to the growing list of dead. With his task done, and a heavy spark, Ratchet continued to make his rounds. He moved from patient to patient, helping those he could and standing vigil, as he had with the pale mech, as they faded to grey.

\-----

It was dark when Ratchet powered up his optics. It was the middle of the night, dark, and the lantern he had set on the desk near the window had gone out. For a long moment Ratchet remained where he was, curled on his berth and wondering just what it was that had pulled him from recharge. The vague sense of something being wrong tugged at the edge of his awareness and it was just a little too much to ignore and fall back to sleep.

Slowly he sat up, his gaze dragging slowly across the dark room as if he could spot whatever disturbance had woke him. There was nothing wrong with his berthroom. Everything was as it had been, save for his lantern going out, and even the view outside his window was calm and still. Or so it seemed. After glowering at the window for a moment a tiny movement amid the shadows outside caught his attention.

And then he heard a small, entreating voice.

A prickle of unease skittering down his spinal strut but Ratchet stubbornly ignored it, climbing out of his berth. The voice crooned, small and muffled, but he moved slowly to find it. Of course it had to be outside, there was no other explanation, and he went to stand near the window and peer into the darkness beyond.

"Doctor." The voice was more clear, the shifting glimmer of dim light on metal gave away the movement of a figure crouched outside, peering up from the shadows with scarlet optics. "Doctor." The voice called again, almost a whine. Whoever it was didn't sound particularly threatening but Ratchet coulddn't shake the sense of unease.

The medics fingers, usually so steady, trembled as he unlatched the locking mechanism along the wall and pushed the ceramic glass panel aside, glaring out into the night. He refused to acknowledge the building sense of wrongness he felt. It was just instinctual reaction to some stranger outside his home!

"What do you want?" Ratchet's tone was sharp, his words clipped as he gave the obscured figure an unimpressed glare. If this stranger, whoever he was, decided to attack he'd slam the window shut in his face and find help but for all he knew this was some dying mech stricken by the plague who had come across his home and hoped for aid. 

For a long moment the figure, still hidden among the shadows, said nothing. He watched, glittering red optics focused on the medic and the two of them stared at one another. Ratchet's unease continued to build but he found himself unable to pull his gaze away.

"Doctor." The voice, stronger this time, all but purred as the glinting of light, little as there was, caught on long pale finials and the golden accents of cheek guards. The figure moved forward, low to the ground, and up against the wall to peer up at the medic who had gone from uneasy to shocked. Ratchet stared down into the familiar, though much more clean, face of the mech who had died in his clinic two days before.

Drift.

Unable to move, Ratchet watched as this Drift stood slowly, clawed fingers following the wall up to the lower edge of the open window. He was smiling, this supposed-to-be-dead mech, and as he leaned closer, that clawed hand reaching slowly for the medic's shoulder, Ratchet still couldn't tear his optics from the bewitching red ones coming closer. A cold panic had him, his spark spinning with some ancient, instinctual fear, and as Drift opened his mouth to reveal glittering sharp fangs, Ratchet found he could do nothing but grip the windowsill with trembling digits.

The smiling face full of fangs drew close, Ratchet's vision was nothing but scarlet light, and he felt what might have been the ghost of a kiss on the sturdy cables and energon lines of this throat.

Ratchet woke with a start.

His room was bright with daylight streaming through the open window, the only sound the sparse traffic down the street. Ratchet stared at the open window, unable to remember if he had opened it sometime in the night. Surely that had been a dream just now? Nothing was disturbed in his room and other than the window itself, everything seemed normal enough.

With an irate grumble the medic dragged himself out of berth and across the room to look outside. The small lane beyond was as it always was and all Ratchet could do was glower at the wall opposite and shut the window.

He'd overslept.

With the town of Rodion succumbing to plague it could use all the help it could and an oversleeping medic was no help at all. With a final grumble and a last glare at the window, Ratchet readied himself for another day of the dead and dying. He paid no mind to lower than normal energon readout on his HUD.

\-----

The same dream came every night thought each time he tried to fight against it. It always ended the same, with Ratchet leaning out of an open window of his dark room and the visage of a dead mech coming closer.

And each morning he woke to find the window open and his energon levels lower than they should be. And lower than they had been the day prior as well.

It was on the sixth day that he had to stop and consider that he, too, had become a victim of the strange plague that was gripping the denizens of Rodion. The thought swirled in his processor as he shuffled around the clinic, tending to the sick and noting that his hands, when near his patients, were muted. His plating had lost a bit of color, the vibrancy less so, and Ratchet's coworkers were taking notice enough to watch him when they thought he wasn't paying attention.

It was fitting he would contract some plague and die the same as those who was unable to save.

After his day of work, long as it was, Ratchet left the clinic with no intention to return.

\-----

It wasn't a disease.

He ran the rounded ends of his fingers over the small wounds he'd found along one of the main energon lines in his neck. Those delicate lines were usually hidden under more sturdy cables but all it took was to gently pull those cables aside...

The wounds were tiny and the only reason Ratchet had noticed them was because his self repair system, weak and overtaxed from extended exsanguination, had been to weak to repair them. He supposed he'd had similar wounds all throughout the onset of his 'illness' but had never noticed until they continued to bleed after waking.

And every night he had the dream.

Vague memories of folk tales from tiny villages far into wild places of Cybertron came to mind. Ratchet was a mech of science, of medicine, and paid no heed to such things but now? Perhaps it was a disease in another sense; some virus the hijacked the frame after deactivation? Or even before that when the unfortunate host fell into stasis. Surely not supernatural.

It didn't matter much now. He stared out the open window at the pale light of day, the usual brightness dimmed by an overcast sky. Perhaps the acid rains would keep that dead mech from coming for him tonight but he knew it would only be temporary. Ratchet couldn't count on it to rain every night.

With the light of day still on his side he left his home to the nearest general supply store; might as well get more fuel for his lantern.

\-----

_The haven of light flickered, the lanterns glow having grown dim and weak. Still, the medic sat and watched the dying glow. The rain had come for two days but now it was silent outside, the darkness watching as it hovered at the edges of the light. The fading glow shrank down, steady and uncaring, as the encroaching night filled the room. The window rattled, Ratchet could hear it opening, but he did not look away from the glowing ember of the lantern's wick. His failure had come to him, the doctor who had tried to help, and there was no escape. He could see movement, the figure of a dead mech sliding in through the window beside the desk and moving toward him with easy grace. As the last, lingering speck of light clung to the wick a cold hand found him sitting in the dark._


	4. Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Mirage, mention of others  
> Pairings: N/A  
> Warnings: Isolation
> 
> Still garbage with tags and warnings.

Mirage stared down in horror as his hands, his arms, his everything began to fade. The solid image of his form shimmered, becoming more and more transparent as he just stood in the middle of the hall. The horror only grew as Bumblebee turned the corner and walked right toward him. 

And through him.

Mirage stammered, reaching after the yellow bot in a panic but his hand simply pushed through the smaller mech as Bumblebee continued on unaware.

No.

No. No. NO. **NO.**

He ran down the garish orange corridor, heading for the Ark's rec room. Surely someone could see? He wasn't entirely invisible yet! 

Mirage rounded the corner and sprinted down the next hall and through the open doorway, skidding to a stop as Wheeljack walked right through him. Tracks followed, arguing something inconsequential, but Mirage couldn't be bothered to listen to it. They, too, had simply walked through him as if he were a ghost.

"Hello?"

Nothing.

He tried again over the comm. network but found only the steady hum of white noise.

His calls went unanswered. Unheard.

With a panicked sound that was definitely not a whine, he was too dignified for that, Mirage turned and bolted from the rec room. If no one could see him than perhaps he could leave a message? He was still able to run, could still feel the floor under his pedes! He fled to the nearest console, slamming his fingers onto the tough keys as he tried to log in with his credentials, hoping to send out a system wide message.

By the forth time his log in had been denied did he pause to read. Had he been typing too fast, in his panic? But no, the display gave him the error simply enough and all Mirage could do was stare at it. Icy dream swirled around his spark and a keen, dignity be slagged, escaped him.

Slowly, entering each glyph with care, he tried once more. He entered his designation, military identification number, and the code specific to his division and rank. After double checking that all the information was correct he entered the information and waited, sending a prayer to Primus, for the acceptance and entrance into the system.

**ERROR -- NO RECORD OF ENTERED IDENTIFICATION**

He slammed his fist into the console. Or tried too. His hand connected for a moment before slowly pushing through, as if he'd struck some exceedingly dense cloud. He stumbled back in shock, looking at the faded, almost nonexistence shape of his hand.

He was nearly invisible now, only the faintest impression of color and shape remained.

Mirage ran. 

Out of the room and into the corridor again, ignoring the despair filled whimper that left him as he barreled through the twins, both of them carrying on as if nothing had happened at all, and headed for Optimus Prime's office. Surely the Prime would be able to help. Surely the Matrix could allow his Prime to see him? Hear him?

Around corner, down the hall, around another turn and Mirage found himself moving sluggishly as he found his legs sinking into the floor. He struggled, continuing on forward in his panic, his calls for help unheeded. 

Primus below, what was happening!? 

Ironhide and the Prime rounded the next corner and hope cut a neat line through his fear.

Mirage tried to call out but found himself suddenly silent, flailing as he was chest deep in the floor of the Ark. His silent pleases became more frantic as the pair came closer, near-invisible hands reaching out to cling to one of the Prime's legs, fingers gripping--actually gripping!--into the blue plating.

Optimus Prime looked down, right into the terrified spy's face. The corners of his optics squinting in a smile, keen acknowledgement in his gaze. 

Mirage dared to hope.

Then the Prime continued on, not even pausing in his stride, as Mirage lost all trace of visibility and his fingers slipped through the blue plating as it moved past him. 

He screamed, silent, as he sank into the floor and down beyond into the darkness of the Earth. Invisible and forgotten.

**"Mirage!"**

He startled, sitting up with such force he upturned the half empty cube of energon all over the table.

"Woah! Easy, 'Raj. Y'alrigh', mech?" Jazz was standing beside him where Mirage sat at one of the tables in the rec room. "Bad dream? Ya were kinda whimperin'."

Mirage took a moment, looking around at the room, at Jazz and his somewhat worried but friendly smile, and at himself.

He was fine. Everything was fine.

He looked at the mess he'd made on the table when he woke and frowned. "Yes, Jazz. Thank you. I'm fine now." He was not going to admit to whimpering.

Jazz hummed, giving his subordinate a pat on the shoulder, before meandering over to the dispensary to gather up one of the massive towels the humans had made for them. He meandered on back just as easily, plopping the absorbent cloth onto the table. All the while Mirage simply sat there staring at his own hands.

"Dunno wha' ya were dreamin' of but try an' take it easy, yeah?" The saboteur wiped up the spilled energon and, after putting the soiled towel somewhere out of the way for someone else to deal with later, giving Mirage another pat on the shoulder.

"And YOU--" Cliffjumper's voice carried over from where he was bickering with Bluestreak, his attention now on the pair. Jazz snickered, giving Mirage's shoulder a squeeze, before stepping away with a little grin. The fragger was leaving him to deal with that tiny red menace!?

Well, Mirage supposed it could be worse.


	5. Treat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Prowl, Jazz, mention of others  
> Pairings: Jazz/Prowl   
> Warnings: NONE! UNLESS YOU'RE ALLERGIC TO CANDY!

Prowl stood to the side, watching in silent befuddlement as Jazz fiddled with tiny...sometimes. 

The saboteur manipulated a minuscule brown thing with a pair of micro tweezers that Prowl suspected had been 'borrowed' from Ratchet. The little brown thing was carefully nudged next to a similarly sized red thing. Both were round with tiny sticks protruding from the top.

He was humming, Prowl noted, while working on his little display of tiny, colorful objects.  
The only proper conclusion was that it was something meant for the humans.

Jazz studied his little round things for a moment, humming paused, before he grumbled and turned to his box of equally small supplies. He dug around until he found something also stupidly small, using the tweezers to pop it open.

A little jar?

Prowl took a moment to look over the little display again, searching through all available data in hopes of identifying whatever...this was supposed to be.

In the meantime, Jazz was very carefully using his stolen tweezers to manipulate an even tinier brush to coat the brown round thing with a metallic gold dust from the tiny jar.

He looked ridiculous.

"It's Candy." The visor mech supplied just as Prowl's search came up with the same answer. He was doing that on purpose...

"Why are you playing with human candy?"

"M'not playin'!"

"Then what are you doing?"

"Makin' us. It's Halloween!"

Halloween. That bizarre human holiday celebrating monsters and other such scary things. And candy. Humans were a strange species.

And here was Jazz making a candy display? No wonder everything was so small, if most of these edibles were tiny for humans as well.

With a better grasp of what his friend was up to, Prowl studied the little pile of brightly colored candy treats Jazz had put together on the dark board. He had said 'us' and after a long, hard glare Prowl was still unsure what he meant.

Red candy apple. Caramel apple covered in gold dust? Tiny, oblong yellow candies that could be several but seemed to match up with 'lemon heads,' and a pile of....something red.

Jazz carefully put down what looked like a translucent red and blue snake? It was larger than the other candies and Jazz carefully manipulated it with the tweezers to that it seemed to slither between some of the others.

Next a small, dark disk was placed near the snake. No, worm? Prowl wasn't entirely familiar with all the...long, legless animals of this planet.

Jazz pushed the dark disk, causing it to split down the middle to reveal a white filling. The two halves were carefully maneuvered around to Jazz's liking before he returned to his little box of candy supplies to pull out the next tiny treat.

A soft, blue and white fish? No. Shark. That Prowl could see well enough.

Sensor panels jumped, settling once the realization had hit.

'Us.'

"Each of these human candies are supposed to represent one of us, correct?"

Jazz paused, little tweezers gripping a small spiraled disk of red that Prowl identified as red 'licorice.' He smiled, a playful glint flashing agross his blue visor. 

"Smart mech! Can y'guess who is who?"

Prowl looked over the candies again, clearly identifying the big worm as Optimus Prime. The yellow candies had to be Bumbleblee and the two candy apples were no doubt the twins.

"Most of them." Prowl murmured, looking at the blue and white shark for a moment before concluding it was supposed to be mirage. The disk was likely supposed to be Prowl himself. Or Jazz. He wasn't entirely sure.

"I am not sure about this one," He gesturwd to said broken disk. "Or those red ones."

"Those are Red Hots! For Cliff." Jazz had turned back to his candy project, putting the disk of red licorice down near the Optimus worm. "Tha' dark one is you! And this--" He diffled with th red licorice again until he had it just as he liked. Primus knew what that was. "Is 'Hide."

Prowl only nodded, knowing Jazz could see him from where he stood there beside the table, watching. Now that he understood and could clearly see the logic behind his friend's 'work,' he was content to stand and watch.

And play a silent guessing game.

Jazz hummed, going with his tweezers again and again to adjust this treat and at that candy from his box.

Prowl was quiet and labeling each candy as it was put down.

A soft-looking pale green square? Hound. A silver foil wrapped drop of some kind? Bluestreak. A tricolored hard candy on a stick? Smokescreen. Little triangles of orange, yellow, and white? Hot Rod; even if the colors didn't match up perfectly.

Then jazz set down a candy cane.

Prowl snorted.

They both paused and Jazz looked up, giving his superior a frown.

"That is for a different holiday." Prowl pointed out, unable to hide his amusement. He was not privy to human candy but he knew enough about Christmas to to know that candy canes were solidly locked onto that celebration and not the current one.

Jazz only shrugged, turning to frown at his little candy display. "Ain't a ton o'red an' white candy okay?"

"Ratchet?"

"Ratchet."

For some reason Prowl found that oddly fitting for their resident medic to be a misplayed holiday candy.

"Jazz."

The spy bot looked up, tilting his head with a quizzical look as he waited for Prowl to continue.

The tactician looked at his friend for a long moment before letting his critical optics drift to the box of candies and then to the display. Hn.

"I do not see a candy for you."

Jazz frown, looking back down at his tiny box of supplies, using the tweezers to gently rifle through it. "Couldn't fin' anything good. Maybe black licorice? 'Cept humans say they hate it." And clearly Jazz couldn't allow himself to be an unwanted candy.

His very careful rifling stopped when he felt--saw--Prowl lean in to plant a gentle kiss on his cheek. Slowly he turned, blue visor catching the light as he took in the self-satisfied smirk on the Praxian's face.

"Well, whatever you choose it will never rival your true sweetness."

Jazz gaped.

Prowl continued to smirk as he turned and walked away. He had work to do, after all, and Jazz could finish his little project without him.

He'd get a treat from the saboteur later, he was sure.


End file.
